


Tickling Your Fancy

by LittleLinor



Series: Ren's To Blame [5]
Category: Cardfight!! Vanguard
Genre: Body Worship, Established Relationship, Foot Fetish, M/M, Minor Injuries, this is a little less tame than my usual stuff for them oops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-30
Updated: 2016-12-30
Packaged: 2018-09-13 08:47:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9115729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleLinor/pseuds/LittleLinor
Summary: Chrono sprains his ankle, and promptly regrets it.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Again, NaNo makes you write interesting things.  
> I'm sorry for the title.

“This is so stupid,” you sigh as he closes the door behind you.  
“Here, let me help you with your shoes.”  
“Wh—I can take care of that myself.”  
“You shouldn't put weight on it. Let me.”  
You almost argue, but the quiet way he says it gets to your heart yet again. You sigh and nod, bracing yourself on his shoulder as he crouches and puts one knee down to until your shoes and helps you step out of them.  
And maybe he was right after all, because you need all the bracing you can get when you step on the injured ankle to get the other foot out; you'd have needed to sit down to take it off otherwise, and getting up from _there_ would've been even worse.  
He still frowns at your small hiss of pain.  
“I'll carry you,” he says, standing back up.  
“Kouji, it's only sprained...”  
“… please?”  
“Hh—I—” You almost stammer in indignation, because how are you supposed to say no now? But his worry is obvious enough that you can't be mad about it. “… fine. Bedroom, then.”  
He nods and bends down, sliding one arm behind your knees and another behind your chest. You hold on to his shoulders with one of your own as he straightens, breathing a little harder under the weight.  
Every now and then, you're reminded of how strong he can be despite his frail build and terrible eating habits. But sometimes it worries you; what kind of training did he put himself through, to acquire that strength in those kinds of conditions? To maintain it?  
He carries you to your room and helps you sit on the edge of your bed. You lean back gratefully; despite your deep rooted reflex of wanting to do everything on your own, what little walking you've done on it was still enough to tire you out.  
“Are you okay?” he asks, still crouched from having helped you sit.  
“Mm. I think I just need rest… some ice, maybe?”  
He nods and stands up, walking towards the kitchen.  
You wait, still staring at the door he just walked out of. He's worried to the point of almost fidgeting, you know that, but there's something else to the way he moves. Almost like anticipation, rather than nervousness.  
 _Ah_. It hits you suddenly. It's not often that you let him actually _do_ things for you. Much less tell him to.  
… well. You can work with that.  
You wait for him to come back. He's got ice in a washcloth, a bowl of water, and a thick towel. Resourceful, you think.  
“Here,” he murmurs, sliding his hand carefully under your ankle, “let me...”  
You relax your leg and let him bring it up. He looks at it, tracing a finger against the outside and frowning slightly as he brushes over the swollen area.  
“… can I take off the sock? It'll be easier—”  
“Go ahead.” You pause. “You can take off the other one too.”  
He looks up, a little surprised, but does so, starting with the injured foot. You've seen him take off his own, and it's usually a hurried, messy pull, but here he takes his time, carefully sliding a finger under the edge to pull it down over your heel, then rolling it down gently and neatly.  
He sets it aside, and you suddenly feel self-conscious.  
“Sorry—it's probably kinda dirty...”  
“Huh? No, it's fine.”   
He moves to the other foot before you can argue, putting the injured one down carefully and taking off the second sock with as much attention as the first. And before taking your sprained leg back, he actually puts his second knee down and sits back, kneeling properly.  
There to stay for a while, then. It probably shouldn't make your heart flutter a little, but it does.  
He rolls the leg of your trousers up your calf a little, almost to your knee, and gently takes your ankle again, resting it on his thigh before reaching for his ice. Through the washcloth's fabric, you can barely feel the cold at first, but once he lets it rest for a few seconds, you start feeling it radiate.  
The towel goes underneath, in front of him, to catch any drips.  
He's silent, and focused on what he's doing. It's always kind of cute when he gets absorbed in a task like that. Especially when you can tell he's excited for other reasons: even though there might be several levels to it, he still puts the utmost attention into the task itself, and you're pretty sure he enjoys it on its own.  
It's heartwarming, and you hold on to the calm on his face whenever you start feeling guilty about this kind of thing.  
He moves the washcloth towards the back of your heel, and you hiss a little at the cold; you're starting to feel it now, and this area hadn't been touched yet.  
“Did I hurt you?”  
“Wh—no, of course not. It's just cold.”  
“Mm.”  
He presses a little lighter anyway. You roll your eyes and brace yourself on one arm so you can reach forward with the other and pet his head.  
He looks up in surprise.  
“You're doing just fine,” you tell him, amused.  
His cheeks darken—damn, you'll never get used to that expression on him—and he looks back to what he was doing. You chuckle.  
“… Chrono, should I...”  
“Hm?”  
“I thought I'd rinse the ankle in cold water to help reduce the inflammation, but if you're too cold...”  
“Oh—no, it's fine, go ahead.” And because you're actually feeling bold, you gather your courage and add, as firmly and casually as you can (or so you hope): “Actually, why don't you do the whole foot while you're at it?”  
His hands tighten lightly.   
_Score_.   
He looks up, and although he's surprised there's also something else on his face, the kind of look that speaks of willing vulnerability, that you've only ever seen in private.  
You smile.  
“I—yes,” he corrects himself, before taking a deep breath and letting his voice fall back into more deadpan, familiar tones. “I'll need something bigger than a bowl, then.”  
“Go ahead, get whatever you need.” You grin. “And if anything else seems useful, you can take the initiative, too.”  
He nods, and carefully puts your foot and the ice down before standing.

He goes out of the room and moves towards the bathroom. You lean back a little, balanced on your hands, and resist the urge to swing your legs. For something that had started so painfully and annoyingly, this afternoon is taking an unexpected turn for the better. You're actually starting to enjoy it.  
Planned, calculated, this might have felt awkward. But that it happened so naturally just makes you feel warm.  
It really feels like part of you, part of him, part of your personalities meeting, and it's no less natural or fond than a welcome home kiss on the cheek after a long day.  
It feels normal and that makes you happy.  
He comes back with an actual basin of water, then goes back straight away, before finally walking back in with soap, a second towel, and a small bottle. You raise your eyebrows at that last one.  
“I wasn't sure I still had any. It's massaging oil I used for muscle injuries in training. I'm not sure it'll work as well on a sprained ankle, but… maybe it's worth a try.”  
“As long as it doesn't heat up, it should be fine, I think.”  
He kneels back down and pulls the basin in front of him, caught between his knees. It feels strange to have _him_ handle _your_ body, you suddenly realise, and exciting in a weird, fluttering way. You force yourself to relax, and let him lower your foot into the water.  
It's cold, and you muffle a groan.  
“I'm sorry—it has to be cold for this to work.”  
You sigh.  
“Just warn me next time.”  
“I—assumed you'd expected it,” he admits.  
You laugh.  
“Unlike someone, I don't go to any sports club.”  
“Never?”  
“Nope.”  
“… you're surprisingly fit.” He pauses, then adds, more quietly: “you always were.”  
You snicker lightly.  
“Noticed that, did you?” You reach to pet him again, still amused. “I bike around a lot. And I made a point to do as many chores as I could at home—behind Mikuru's back, too. She'd make me slow down if she caught me, but she doesn't notice things too much when she's in a hurry. It's all a matter of timing.”  
“You put a lot of energy into housekeeping.”  
Coming from anyone else, you might have suspected a passive aggressive insult, but from him you know the statement is neutral, or a compliment, even. You chuckle.  
“Groceries are heavy when you're ten, let me tell you.”  
“So what about the rumours of you beating up high school students? Were those founded?”  
You burst out laughing.  
“Oh my g—how did you hear about _that_ one?”  
He looks away.  
“I was… trying to determine what kind of person you were.”  
Ah, yes. Of course.  
You keep laughing under your breath, but can't resist the urge to get teasing on him.  
“That was _one time_. But yes, it's true, and for the record, I didn't start it. I might not be a star student, but I didn't go looking for trouble.”  
He nods, and gets his hands in the water, caressing his fingers against the inside of your ankle and foot.  
You have to repress a hiss, let out a slightly shaky breath instead.  
 _Here goes casual. How the hell is this area sensitive!?_  
To your relief, he doesn't seem to notice, and instead rubs over your entire foot, letting the day's sweat disperse and the cool water soothe your inflamed skin. You take a long, deep breath, forcing yourself to calm down.  
“… how did it happen?” he asks, quietly.  
“Huh?”  
“The fight.”  
“Oh—I saw them picking on a kid from my year. It was pissing me off, so I got in the way. You know how short I was; it was even worse then, so the leader thought he could take me alone to 'teach me a lesson',” you say, balancing yourself for a second to free your hands for air quotes. “Big mistake.”  
He chuckles.  
“I can imagine.”  
“I'd have been in trouble if he had some actual fighting experience,” you laugh. “But he obviously didn't. I gave him a nice bruise on the cheek, got detention for fighting because it happened right in front of the school—which he didn't because he ran off and he wasn't even from _our_ school—and that's how my reputation as a delinquent started.” You shake your head, still laughing. “I was really mad at myself, that's the _one_ time in all my school years they called Mikuru. So I was careful not to let it happen again. But the reputation did have its perks. People left me alone.”  
“… was that really a perk?”  
“Well they didn't pick on me at lea—hhh—”  
You breathe in sharply as his thumb brushes over the inside of your foot again, and he freezes.  
“Did I—”  
“No, you didn't hurt me, I'm just… sensitive...” you admit, almost pouting.  
He looks up. And doesn't even need to say 'oh' for you to read it on him anyway.  
“… keep going,” you tell him quietly.  
He nods and goes back to work.  
He picks up the soap this time, lathers his hands with it before moving back to your foot. His fingers move more fluidly now, and you're not sure whether that's better or worse. But it _feels_ good—you just hope he doesn't notice how much. You don't want to ruin everything with your reactions when he's obviously enjoying the situation so much.  
One of his fingers nudges between your toes a little, pauses to give you time to stop him, and then moves between them properly when you don't, spreading the soap even there.  
 _I could get used to this_ , you think, absently. Doing it yourself is a pain.  
He lowers your foot back into the water, finally, and wipes the soap away, and you have to admit that embarrassing reactions aside, it does feel good to have it clean and fresh like this. It'd almost make you forget the pain.  
“Should I do the other one?”  
“Yes,” you answer before you can think about it.   
He nods and takes the other one, lifting it carefully so you can brace yourself before lowering it in. You breathe in and out slowly, doing your best to keep your reactions under control. It's so _stupid_ , he's being cute and considerate, and here you are turning it into a _thing_. It's like two reactions are waking inside you at the same time, and you wish you could hang on to one and ignore the other but it's not exactly _easy_.  
His eyes whenever he looks up at you aren't helping, but at least he's keeping them down right now, focusing on your foot as he lathers that one with soap too, with just as much care but a little less worry.  
It's—endearing. It's probably counter-productive as far as he's concerned, because what he's making you feel with that position is a want to _take care of him_ , and that's what he's trying to do right now. But it's true. Looking down at him always makes your chest tighten a bit. It makes you _protective_ , makes you want to hold on to him and not let him go.  
It's possessive, too, and you try not to think about that.  
But his expressions in those contexts are simply _cute_ and it makes you warm with affection every time.  
And that's why you don't want to ruin it right now. You want to just let him do what's clearly making him happy, and maybe order around a little to give him a little pride, and just warm yourself to the calm happiness on his face.  
 _Yeah, some hardboiled delinquent I am._  
You chuckle, and he looks up, face questioning.  
“Nothing, I was just thinking back to the whole reputation thing.”  
He nods and takes your healthy foot out of the water, drying it with his second towel and putting it down. Then moves to the injured one, lifting it much more carefully to rest it on the towel on his thigh, just dabbing at it gently and pushing the basin away.  
You sigh, in what you hope sounds like appreciation and not pleasure.  
“That was nice.”  
He smiles, and that was worth every effort. God do you like his smiles.  
“Does it feel better?”  
“A bit yeah.”  
“I'll put the ice back,” he warns.  
You brace yourself on time for him to press the washcloth back against your ankle, although it doesn't stop you from gasping a little. The ice has melted a bit by now, enough that the cold water has seeped into the fabric, and the cold _works_ but it's also. Cold.  
He chuckles and rubs soothingly at your foot with his thumb.   
Right on the sensitive part. Damn him.  
“It's… cold… stupid thing,” you mutter to keep your mouth busy.  
“You're usually more resilient than this,” he points out with a smile.  
Why does he have to be so observant, when he's so clueless in other things. You sigh.  
“Probably cause I'm tired.”  
“Maybe I should get us food later, then. That way you don't have to move from here.”  
You squint at him. There's obvious and Obvious.  
“You're enjoying this, aren't you?”  
“Yes.”  
He's into it enough that he says it without hesitation or shame, and honestly that always shakes you a little. Treating the dynamic between you like an evidence, an established fact that doesn't need questioning.  
You bend forward a little and pet his head again, this time lingering, rubbing fingers into his scalp.  
“I might be enjoying this too much too,” you finally admit. It feels dumb to hide it when he's so matter of fact about it.  
He looks up, questioning, and you blush.  
“I mean—having you look up at me, but also—it's _really_ sensitive.”  
He freezes. Blushes.  
“—I didn't mean—”  
“Hey, it's fine, it's not your fault! And it's not a bad thing, just… just so you know… what you're doing.”  
He stares at you a little, then nods and goes back to what he was doing.  
You gasp a little.  
“Kouji—”  
“I can't think of any consequence to this that I would actually mind,” he says, quietly.  
 _Well, when you put it like that._  
He keeps his hold steady, and moves the ice around gently, covering the entire swollen area. It's still making you shiver, but you can't deny that the pain at least is mostly faded. Although whether it'll come right back as soon as you take the ice away is another question.  
And as if reading your mind, he puts it back down, on the towel he left on the floor, and reaches for his massage oil.  
From the very beginning, it's obvious that his movements come from the habit of rushed self-care: he's quick, hasty, almost, rubbing the oil into his hands first like he's actually in a hurry. But as soon as his hands land on you, he slows, as if realising, and he tries—a little awkwardly—to take his time. Even to make it sensual, you think.  
You let him. There's no reason to rush him; it still feels good, and you want him to gain some confidence in himself. And, well, you do want him to enjoy himself.  
So you wait. With time his movements get more confident, lightly rubbing the oil into your skin, and although it's still making you breathe a little fast, most of what you feel is relaxation. You're not sure whether it's whatever's in that thing, or just the touch of his hands.  
“I enjoy it too,” he says, out of the blue.  
“Huh?”  
“Looking up at you.”  
You feel your face heat up again.  
“I… I knew that already.” You sigh, but it's fond, not exasperated. “It shows.”  
Even at this angle, you can see him smile.  
“Like you said yourself… I thought you should know.”  
You rub fingers into his hair again.  
“And...” he continues, even more quiet, “you should know… what you're doing too.”  
… oh. _Oh_.  
Your hand tightens a little, and you shiver when he moves into it.  
Before you can react, he lifts your ankle, keeping it carefully in position with his hands, and lays a kiss near the ankle, a little to the side.  
Your heart's beating so fast you think it might start tripping.  
A breath, and he kisses again, this time near the ankle. You breathe in harshly, and let your hand tighten for real this time, gripping at his hair without pulling him away. It only seems to encourage him; without missing a beat he kisses a little higher on your calf, before moving down to the area that had been getting to you this entire time, lingering this time.  
A jab of desire runs through you and you're taken with the sudden urge to press your toes into his _mouth_ , to have him look up at you, around them, from under his hair, and do his best to take care of them without his hands and—  
 _What the_ hell _am I doing!?_  
You bite your lip, try to clear your mind. You venture a look down, and your heart does a double take again, because he's looking up again and the view, his expression aren't that far from the image that just made its way into your head. And you want to whine because it's _unfair_.  
“Hh—Kouji, damnit...”  
He pulls back. You're almost disappointed. But your foot remains firmly in his hold, and his eyes up towards you.  
“I'm sorry, was that too forward?”  
 _Well at least he's aware of it._  
“… no, it's just...”  
You trail off. You're not sure how to explain.  
“… when I said you were doing something to me, I meant...” He breathes in. “You acting like you do… allowing me this, taking this position for granted… makes me want to do even more.” He hesitates, then admits: “There are times when it makes me want to do more… to encourage you and let you do whatever you want to me.” He breathes. “Or let you make me.”  
 _Make me do whatever you want_ , your mind completes. And you don't know how to deal with this. You don't know how to take in the idea of having that much of an effect on him.  
You've _known_ , of course, but it always takes you by surprise, every time he reveals a little more.  
Slowly, you let your hand fall, along his head and to his neck, and slide fingers under his hair and behind his shirt to find the small collar he's wearing.  
He gasps. You smile.  
 _Yeah._  
“… that's not a bad thing,” you murmur.  
“Chrono,” he breathes out, and it's like you've flicked a switch with the way his body language gets even more subdued—and even more focused on you.  
You slide your fingers under his collar and pull it up, revealing it from under his clothes and leaving it in plain sight.  
“… should I, then?” you ask, quietly, pulling him a little closer to you with your grip on it. “Make you do whatever I want?”  
“Yes.”  
It's instant and breathless and it takes away the last of your reservations. You take a breath to steady yourself.  
“Put my foot down.” You think— “And leave the ice under it, I'll rest it on it.”  
“Should I strap—”  
“Later.”  
He shuts up and doesn't argue. And that already gets to you.  
He brings your foot down, shifts the towel to put it underneath and cushion it, and leaves the melting ice pack between the two. You adjust your position to let it rest there while freeing your other foot.  
And bring it right up to his face level.  
“Kiss this one too,” you say, already feeling dizzy from how hard saying all this is making your heart beat.  
He keeps his eyes up and kisses, first on the inside edge near your toes, then making his way up. Light but lingering, and your gut tightens every time; you _want him_ and part of you just wants to bring both your legs around his neck and squeeze and lock him there.  
 _Stupid ankle._ You'll have to do this again when it's healed and you don't feel like you're about to have a godamn heart attack.  
He makes his way to your ankle and kisses right on the bone, and you shiver.  
But you can't be mad at him for it. You _ordered_ him to, and he's just doing what you asked; if you didn't want it, you could just tell him to stop. But no, you're too entranced by his eyes to want to pull back; the way he looks when doing this is just impossible to tear your eyes off from.  
He leaves a second kiss there, open-mouthed this time. You breathe in sharply. God, his mouth is _warm_ , and that's what finally decides you properly.  
“That's enough,” you breathe, and even when he stops you need a second to get your breath back. But you continue as soon as you can, because you don't want him to actually pull back. “Hands down, let go.” You swallow. “And don't move.”  
He lets go of your foot, carefully. You breathe in slowly, bracing yourself as his hands go down to his lap.  
 _Okay… you can do this._  
Still feeling a little out of your mind, you balance yourself on your hands for stability and nudge at his lips with your first toe.

He gasps, instantly, and the sharp intake of air brushes against the skin of your foot. It's been a while since you've gotten _that_ level of surprise from him, and it makes your lungs and gut feel wider, deeper with excitement. There's a fraction of second of almost _panic_ in his eyes, not upset but taken completely off balance, a flicker of fear of the unknown that you can't adapt to. And hell if _that_ isn't also an expression you drink right up when it's on his face.  
You hold back the urge to bite your lip, and keep your eyes on his.  
 _Do it._  
And with a shaky breath, he tentatively opens, letting your toe slide between his lips—and your arms feel weak because even with it only resting on his lips and teeth, you can feel the heat—the _texture_ of his mouth, and most of all, you can see his eyes haze, his cheeks darken.  
And feel his breath, increasingly hurried.  
Knowing he might be coming apart even faster than you are is a kind of consolation.  
You need to work out, you think absently. You're not gonna be able to keep this up forever with the way your arms are already going weak from emotion, and keeping your leg up like this takes _work_. But it's worth it, because when you nudge just a little deeper, he takes the initiative to open further and move his head forward a tiny bit, drawing the next toes in.  
You want to rub at his scalp in praise, but you really can't afford to give up on your support right now, especially with your injured ankle.  
 _Why did it have to come to this for me to think of doing this_ , you grumble inwardly.  
 _Because you'd never have dared even think about it without all this awkward accidental buildup._  
You're not sure whether that means you're in over your head right now, or that you need to work on being bolder. And his mouth is so stupidly warm, especially after all that cold water, that you're having trouble focusing on anything else.  
You let your toes curl, your breath short, and suddenly realise what's been missing to this whole thing.  
It still makes your chest and throat seize up a bit to even think about saying it.  
“Y—” _You should_ … no, you can do better than that. You take in a breath, release it. “Use your tongue.”  
He looks up and he _does_ , just a flicker across the end of your big toe at first, and then more fully, with more than just the tip. It brushes against you and drapes itself to the shape of your toe, caressing and melding, made soft with saliva. You shiver—he closes his eyes for a second, cheeks heated, head tilted slightly up and forward as if his mouth was reaching for you, and lets his tongue move again, to the side, and brush down the edge of your toe before opening his eyes again, looking up at you. And maybe you're not the only one to be this into it, because you think you feel his mouth open a little more, feel his position shift as if he was trying to draw more of you into his mouth despite the colour on his cheeks.  
The sides of your neck burn so hot you almost expect flames to spread to your hair.  
You take in a shaky breath and push in a little more, forcing him to accommodate you. And the position is still awkward, but feeling the little noise he makes vibrate around you is hot as hell. And his eyes—they've closed just a little, eyelids heavy and eyes dark, and he looks right at you as he lets you move in, as if moving past embarrassment and into pure _want_. Or pure acceptance. _Doing_ , without holding back to think about it.  
But his eyes have more than pure acceptance, his eyes seem to invite you in, to _claim_ something, and you're not sure what.  
You want to pet him so badly.  
He slides his tongue between your toes and you hold back a noise. It's tickling and warm at the same time, too light and too much, the sensitive, rarely-touched creases at the base of your toes buzzing as if you'd been shot with a gentle electric current. You want to pull back, a little, but most of all you want to _push_.  
 _Calm down..._  
He breathes around your toes and slides his tongue up above them, and his throat lets out what almost sounds like a _moan_ , and you can't stop yourself; you _need_ to pull that noise out of him again, to make his voice light and weak and accepting, subdued. You curl your toes up just to force his tongue back in place, push in harder and _press_ , down, locking his tongue in place.  
Right away he gasps, a harsh, hurried breath rushing in around you as he almost pulls back and stops himself. You keep the pressure up, shifting just slightly to grind his tongue down, and he whimpers, tongue vainly pulling back as his throat tightens, pulses. There's dampness in his eyes, too, not outright tears but maybe the birth of some, forced out by the shudder in his throat.  
You release his tongue. He moans a little as your toes fill the rest of his mouth more again, and you bite your lips against the strain in your thigh and stomach.  
 _I won't be able to hold much longer..._  
It's frustrating; his face is both intense and dazed, and it feels like you could do _anything_ right now if you weren't tiring out and balancing a sprained ankle. And from his eyes, you think he expects you to.  
 _Next time,_ you tell yourself fiercely. _Next time._  
Next time you'll be ready and you won't be injured, and you'll probably have added ab work to your workout. Next time you can give him everything he wants.  
Next time you can _take_ what you want, follow the buzzing in your lungs that makes you want to pull him ever closer and make him let go.  
You don't want to stop quite yet, though, so you pull out, just barely, and rest your toes against his lower lip, breathing in to keep your body going.  
He looks up at you, panting lightly.  
“Up to the ankle,” you tell him, and it's quiet but he nods anyway and obeys.  
His tongue brushes around your toe, circling it as if he's almost reluctant to let go, and then he's shifting, stretching his neck a little to manoeuvre around and to the inside of your foot, tongue still trailing.  
A good initiative.  
He licks along the curve right after your toes, into the hollow that was so sensitive before, and the small spasm that runs up your calf confirms that that hasn't changed. He smiles and drags his tongue again, slower and more insistently, deviating from his earlier line to follow the inward curve more fully. And before you have time to decide whether to scold him or not, he's dipped _under_ it and pulled a small moan out of you and gone back to his path as quickly as he'd left it, finishing his trail up the still-tingling inside of your foot, and towards the bump on your ankle, circling it slowly. Lazily, almost, and that's the last word you'd ever associate with Kouji Ibuki, but you're not sure how else to describe the way he takes his time, tongue moving against your skin and bone as his nose and lips and breath brush against you.  
 _Leisurely_.  
He's enjoying this. You'd almost be offended at how easily he got _you_ to lose control if you didn't eat his moments of enjoyment so much.  
“Good… job...” you breathe out, and you give up on hiding how shaky it is.  
He smiles and leaves a kiss in the same spot before pressing his face against your ankle a little. And it's only then that you can feel how heated his cheeks still are despite his apparent assurance.  
You can't hold back anymore, not when he gives that kind of naked affection. You push on one of your arms even more so you can reach forward with the other one.  
“Sit back,” you tell him, and he does, leaning back until his back is straight again.  
Breathing slowly at the strain, you let your leg drop slowly, then pull on your stomach muscles to right yourself, exhaling.  
He's still expectant in the way he sits, and once more you wish you could've kept going. Instead you smile, fond, one of your cheeks a little tight from it, and reach forward to pet his hair.  
“I'm starting to tire out,” you explain.  
Right away, his eyes widen, as if he'd actually forgotten.  
“—you were injured—”  
You tighten you hand in his hair and reach forward to press the index of your other hand to his lips.  
“I told you to,” you remind him. “Don't go guilt tripping yourself now like I can't take care of myself.”  
He nods, then chuckles a little, eyes falling for a second.  
“You're right.”  
“Don't think I won't make the most of it next time, though,” you tell him, stretching your injured leg (it's tensed, unsurprisingly, and that's starting to make it hurt again; you'll have to be careful) and anchoring your other foot to the ground so you can pull him closer and rest his head against your thigh.  
He follows your lead, relaxing as soon as you stop moving him, and you can't help but smile wider.  
“… again,” he finally says after a few moments, “I don't think I will mind.”  
He leans his face more into the support of your thigh when you rub at his scalp, and even with the pain still tickling at your ankle, you don't need anything else right now.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, and as a reward for coming this far (hah), [there's art](https://twitter.com/linsartecutions/status/814343667846680581).


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